


Hideously Compelling

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel Berry is annoying, and disgusting, and wholly idiotic--and, somewhere along the line, Santana was drafted as her number one advice counselor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hideously Compelling

Title: Hideously Compelling  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Rachel Berry friendship, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: PGish  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S3.  
Summary: Rachel Berry is annoying, and disgusting, and wholly idiotic--and, somewhere along the line, Santana was drafted as her number one advice counselor.  
A/N: Sparked by the " _crap_ , I'm going to miss you" line in the promo. This is as close as I will _ever_ get to writing Pezberry. I hope revolted friendship works for all those out there who have tried to prompt me into it. :P

  
Santana has no idea why or when this happened, but somewhere along the line—horrifyingly—she kind of, sort of, maybe—stopped loathing the living hell out of Rachel Berry. Which _doesn’t_ , she will rush to remind anyone who asks, mean she _likes_ the little Broadway brat. God, no. Liking Rachel Berry is a special hell reserved for monster-sized humans with brains only slightly larger than their dicks. And also the likes of Quinn Fabray, which would be depressing if Santana was even bothering to try keeping up with that train wreck lately. Which she isn’t. Because it’s fucking senior year, and she’s got a few more important things on her plate than whipping out her extra-special Crazy Blonde decoder ring whenever Fabray screeches.

Whatever. Moving on.

The fact is, somewhere along the line, Santana stopped loathing Rachel Berry and started…tolerating her? She can’t quite find the word that suits their situation, because it’s not blissfully empty-headed enough to be called an acquaintanceship, and it sure as fuck isn’t worthwhile enough to be a fucking _friendship_. It’s something in between, something ugly and charming and so very _gross_.

Hideously compelling. That’s what Rachel is, with her nasty polyester skirts and her 1970s-grandmother jewelry choices. Hideously fucking compelling.

Santana has no idea why she puts up with her.

The thing of it is, Rachel has this… _vibe_ about her that keeps Santana from smashing her in the face with the piano stool and bolting for the door. It’s not a _cute_ vibe, not the kind of vibe that leads her to keep Puckerman, or Chang-Squared, or even Rollerball around. It’s a completely new vibe entirely, one that makes Santana’s teeth itch and her skin crawl.

Rachel, she thinks, is like a hamster on the brink of backsliding down the evolutionary chain. Rachel is socially inept to revolting degrees. Rachel has no handle whatsoever on her life. Rachel, Santana is confident, would have fallen down the damn well by now with no Lassie in sight, if not for Santana.

Which isn’t Santana’s fault. Santana has never wanted Rachel around, not even once. She can’t remember a single occasion of thinking, _Gee, it sure would be swell to see Berry’s mega-nose right now._ Rachel just doesn’t spark that kind of bullshit.

What Rachel _does_ do—and has been doing for longer than Santana might have realized until very recently—is ask questions. A lot of questions. Santana’s pretty sure she’s saved the girl’s goddamn social life more often than anyone else in that stupid school.

Which disgusts her more than words can say. But whatever; it’s too late to take back now.

The thing is, Rachel Berry doesn’t seem to come to anyone else for advice. _Ever_.

And, for whatever hideously compelling reason, Santana always finds herself helping the little idiot out.

***

The first time it happens, they are at cheer camp, long before any high school chaos kicks in. Santana is chasing the heels of thirteen out the door, standing on the McKinley football field in a tank top and brand new white sneakers. Wedged between Brittany and their newest recruit, Quinn Fabray, Santana can just make out the top of Berry’s midget head, eight feet down the line. Rachel Berry, whose nose is too big for her face, and who is distinctly lacking in just about every way—including, Santana notes with no small blush of triumph, in the boobal region. No cigar on that front, nowhere _near_ what Santana herself has developed in the last year. Rachel Berry is, in all ways, a waste of potential cheer.

It’s more than obvious that she doesn’t belong here.

And yet, here she is: creeping bashfully along the line, a handful of steps every few minutes, until her tiny block-shaped paw comes tugging at the back of Santana’s shirt. Relentless, as Berry has always been.

Santana considers twirling haughtily away then and there, turning and making a mad break for the other end of the line. She could pull it off, she knows; she’s got a real talent for ignoring the things that bother her (like, for example, the way Quinn is already trying to top-dog her into submission, or how her stomach turns endless tricks whenever Brittany’s hand tucks into hers without asking), and nothing bothers her more than Rachel Berry. She’s been wishing the hobbit right out of existence since they were ten, and Rachel attempted to perform an impromptu Abba concert from the top of the monkey bars.

She _could_ make a break for it now, except Brittany is looking at her with those raised eyebrows, the ones that silently beckon for her to _be nice_. Even though Brittany hates Rachel, too, maybe even more than Santana does, she’s pretty big on the being nice thing. Santana doesn’t think there’s anything she could possibly do to make Brittany mad enough to find a new best friend, not after all this time, but just in case…

” _What?_ ” she huffs, jerking away from Rachel’s irritating grasp. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpses Brittany’s hidden smile.

“Can I ask you something?” Rachel’s eyes are darting this way and that, sparking down the line like she’s hell-bent on memorizing every pair of legs in sight. Which is pretty fucking gay, truth be told. Santana makes a note to rip on her for it when the time is right.

She hasn’t answered yet, but Rachel is pulling insistently on her arm, like a tiny sibling desperate for a treat at the zoo. It’s disgusting, but Brittany’s giving her that little _go on_ nod, and Santana has no choice. Two steps out of line. Four. Rachel is yanking her too far from her friends, too far from where she wants to be. Fucking terrific.

“Why are you talking to me?” she demands when Rachel’s feet dig into the turf at last, her head bowed toward the ground. “We’re not friends.”

“I know,” Rachel says, a little softer than Santana’s expecting. “I don’t have any friends.”

 _Well, fuck._ What is she supposed to say to _that_?

“What do you want?” she asks stiffly, doing her best not to clench her fists at her sides. Rachel peers up at her, doe eyes obnoxiously wide.

“You’re going to make the team,” she says, like she’s already seen Sylvester’s roster. “It’s the second day, and I can tell. You, and Brittany, and even that pretty girl—“ She seems to catch herself, lip clamped between even teeth. “Quinn, right?”

“Right,” Santana replies, because it’s so much easier than making a joke right now. She doesn’t have the _time_ for this, or the interest. She should be standing back in that line, stretching in place until Coach makes her way onto the field and begins heaving orders at them. This is a complete waste of energy.

“What’s your question?” she demands. Rachel shuffles, one arm clutching the other across her flat little chest.

“Do you think I’ve got a chance?”

It’s so quiet, so unlike Berry in every loudmouthed way, that Santana believes she’s heard it wrong the first time. She cups a hand around her ear, leaning in.

“Say again?”

“Do you think I’ve got a chance?” Rachel repeats, a little sturdier this time. Her eyes are still as round as tennis balls, her weight bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Santana lets her gaze roam down the distressingly neon outfit: a shock-green windbreaker, matching shorts that show off exactly how scrawny those twigs Rachel calls legs are. _Pink_ sneakers.

 _Christ_.

“Honestly?”

Rachel hesitates, then nods. Every inch of her face screams regret, and yet, there’s a strange confidence buried somewhere in there. Tiny, almost unnoticeable, but present. Much as Santana hates to admit it, she sort of respects that.

“No,” she says flatly, and almost feels bad about it for the first second of aftermath, when Rachel’s face twitches like a tree about to come down hard. Rachel, stupid, _ridiculous_ Rachel. Why is she even _here_?

Santana fully expects the conversation to drag on forever, with all the _why's_ and _what can I do's_ , but it doesn’t. Rachel gives a brisk nod, like she’s shaking off a cold shower, and simply says, “Thank you.” And then, to Santana’s complete astonishment, she turns and traipses right back into place. Her feet strike the end of the line and stick, shoulders thrust back, miniature melon head held high. Santana gapes after her, half-inclined to shout, _“What did I just tell you? You’re not going to fucking make it!”_

A normal person would give up, walk away, accept the criticism—the _truth_ —and say no more about it.

As Santana shrugs and reclaims her place at Brittany’s side, she swallows her first dose of the endless irritation that is Advising Rachel Berry. Because Rachel, she will find out, asks a billion and one questions.

And Rachel, she will find out, never, _ever_ listens to the answers.

***

“Are you kidding me?” Santana groans, grasping the straps of her backpack to prevent herself from running a fist into the dead center of Rachel Berry’s stupid face. “You’re really going to block me? You’re like three feet tall!”

“I just want to ask you a question,” Rachel informs her calmly. The whole of her unimpressive body is braced across the bathroom doorway, effectively preventing Santana from getting her pee-and-primp on. Being fucking annoying. What a surprise.

“And _I_ just want to ram your _Cats_ -addled little head into the wall,” Santana sneers. “We can’t always get what we want. Move it.”

“It’s just one question,” Rachel fires back, though Santana is sure she sees fear flash behind mousey eyes. “And then you can go.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Santana growls, already sick and tired of this little routine. It’s not the first time Rachel has cornered her since cheer camp two years ago, and every question since has been just as aggravating as the first. Mainly because, no matter what Santana says in return, Rachel _always_ seems to go about her business just as originally planned. It makes no fucking sense.

And this is coming from a girl whose best friend believes lawn gnomes steal the socks from her dryer at night.

“What do you think,” Rachel drives on anyway, apparently oblivious to Santana’s mounting homicidal urges, “about Jesse?”

“ _Who_?” The blood is rushing in her ears again, the way it does immediately before she finds herself facing down a strange new hole in her wall. This is unacceptable. And she really, _really_ has to friggin’ pee.

“Jesse St. James,” Rachel repeats, standing a little taller—like it matters—and flicking her hair from her eyes. “My boyfriend.”

“ _You_ have a boyfriend.” It’s not even a question; Santana can’t bring herself to sound that invested. Not that she believes Berry could ever score a man—or a dog—with that gross toddler wardrobe, but whatever; the tiny Phantom-phile could be maintaining a whole goddamn orgy, if it meant keeping her out of Santana’s perfectly glossy hair.

“I do,” Rachel says, proudly, the way a small child might speak of her new Build-a-Bear creation. Santana’s lip curls.

“Wait a second. St. James. Isn’t that the Vocal Asshole with all the hair?”

“He is _not_ an asshole,” Rachel replies hotly. “Although his hair is admittedly magnificent. But, yes. That’s Jesse. And he is my boy—“

“Yeah, heard that part.” Her head is beginning to ache with the prolonged contact with Berry Voice. “You’re fucking the enemy?”

It’s almost endearing, in a thoroughly hateful way, to watch Rachel’s face turn that vibrant shade of crimson. “I-I’m not sure what you’re implying—“

“That you’re fucking the enemy,” Santana drawls. “Honestly, Berry, keep up.”

“I am not _f-fu_ — _sleeping with_ anyone!” Rachel damn near shrills, her tiny, weird fingernails digging crescents into the painted doorframes. Santana grins.

“Whatever, Berry. You want my opinion?”

The expression on Rachel’s face strongly suggests otherwise, but fuck—she must have cornered Santana here for _something_. It might as well be to bring reality crashing down.

“I think,” Santana says slowly, just in case Rachel is still having trouble keeping up with normal human speech, “that any guy who dresses like _that_ , and walks like he owns the world, and is the lead singer for _Vocal fucking Adrenaline_ —is bad news. For all of us, not just your creepy miniature vag.”

“My _vag_ —“ Rachel’s face is totally on the brink of exploding now. “—is not _miniature_.”

Santana snorts. “Like I want to be anywhere near that topic.”

“I—You don’t know _anything_ ,” Rachel hisses, leaning unpleasantly close. Santana rolls her eyes.

“You asked.”

“And you’re _wrong_. Jesse is sweet, a-and compassionate, and sensitive. And I think he—“ Rachel sucks in a breath, powering through the next phrase like stopping in the middle might unravel her whole delusional belief system. “He _loves me_.”

“Gross,” Santana tells her, almost pleasantly. “Fine. Whatever. He’s a doll. You wanna get the fuck out of my way now?”

The echo of Rachel’s huff resounds long after she has stomped away. Santana shakes her head.

“What a moron.”

***

“No _way_ ,” Santana warns at a fifteen-foot distance from her locker. “We have to turn around.”

“What?” Brittany’s hand pauses on the small of her back, head cocked uncertainly. “Why? I have a Snickers bar in there.”

“No good. It’s bugged.”

Brittany’s mouth sprawls open. “My Snickers has _bugs_? But that was going to be my ticket out of the history test!”

“Not—“ Santana shakes her head. “Forget it. Look.”

Brittany follows her finger to the tired-looking body slumped between their locker doors. “Oh. _Ohh_. What does she want?”

“To drive me out of my fucking mind,” Santana grumbles. “We’ll take the long way around. And I’ll buy you a new Snickers bar. There’s a vending machine over—“

“Santana!”

_Fuck me._

“Run,” she hisses, already primed to drag Brittany down the hall, but it’s too late. The midget is far faster than Santana would like to give her credit for, and far too dead-set on getting her way. She’s got another of her fucking _questions_ , that much is obvious from the disturbing serial-killer glint in those creepy doll eyes. Fantastic.

“No,” Santana tosses over her shoulder. “Whatever it is: no.”

“You haven’t even heard what I have to say,” Rachel protests. Santana snickers.

“And I don’t want to.”

“What if I was about to offer you my lunch for the day?” Rachel presses slyly. “Or a crisp twenty dollar bill?”

Santana’s eyes narrow. “Are you?”

“Well—not exactly—“

“Then, _no_.” Hooking an arm through Brittany’s, she tilts her chin as high as it will go and announces, “C’mon, Britt-Britt. We gots class.”

“You _have_ class,” Rachel corrects automatically, skittering along in her shiny dress shoes as she strains to keep up. The only thing preventing Santana from immediately flipping her the bird is Brittany’s hand draped across her own.

“Because adjusting my grammar is the _perfect_ way to make me give a shit.”

“I’m sorry!” And, damn her, she actually kind of sounds it, too. Glee really has had a sobering effect on Rachel Berry. Still as annoying as ever, but with 85% more guilt factor. It’s anything but an improvement.

And, as if that wasn’t enough, there’s always the added burden of the Finn Factor. Which, if Santana’s kept up with her dating gossip for the week, probably has something to do with—

“I’m trying to decide if I should stay with Finn!” Rachel blurts out. Santana groans.

“That is exactly the grossest thing you could bring up—“

“Actually,” Rachel continues, heedless of Santana's horror-struck expression, “I’m trying to decide if I should…well, I mean. You know. _Seal the deal_. With Finn.”

“Oh God.” A thousand and one responses spiraling through her mind, and the best she’s got is a particularly violent need to spew. “Why would you even—just— _God_ , Berry.”

Brittany’s eyes are bright with barely contained laughter. “Ooh, this sounds good.”

“It sounds _revolting_ ,” Santana bites back. “Berry, why the _hell_ would you think I give a damn about your sex life? I mean, is there _anything_ less appealing on this earth?”

“Finn’s sex life?” Brittany offers brightly. Santana sags against her shoulder, probing her forehead with her fingertips.

“No. Okay? No.”

“Is that your answer, or…?” Rachel at least has the grace to look hesitant. Maybe because the last time she asked for boy advice—advice Santana actually gave an honest opinion on, anyway—it wound up blowing up in all of their faces. Maybe this time, she’ll actually pay some goddamn attention.

But, honestly? Probably not.

“No,” Santana repeats firmly. “I’m not going there.”

“But _Santana_.” Fucking hell, is she seriously _whining_? Brittany’s hand tightens upon Santana’s, holding her still.

This is a waste of her fucking time. Every time she gives her honest opinion, Berry turns right around and does the exact opposite. Every single time. There’s no point in answering, no point in even _pretending_ to give a damn, because all that’s going to happen is—is—

“Fine,” she says, realization dawning. “Yes.”

“What?” Rachel and Brittany ask in dumbfounded unison. Santana bares her teeth.

“Yes, you should mount Flubber the Puffy-Haired Humpback. Yes, you should ride him all the way to Free Willy. Yes, you should have a number of puffy-haired, ham hocked children and take them all to see the family tree at Sea World. Yes, yes, yes. You have my blessing. Fucking _go_ for it.”

Brittany looks like she’s seconds away from doubling over in hysterics. Rachel, for her part, is all wide eyes and gaping mouth. Maybe it’s stupid, to feel proud of pulling the wool over the tiny dipshit’s eyes, but Santana can’t help it. Sarcasm. Why didn’t she think of that before? Sarcasm _always_ does the trick. No one in their freaking right mind would ever agree to something like that. No one could possibly take fucking _Flubber_ seriously.

This time, Rachel will absolutely, naturally, 1000%-positive not say—

“You’re right.”

Santana drags the victory parade in her head to a screaming halt. “What?”

“You’re absolutely right.” She hates the way Rachel is smiling, a despicable little Jewish cherub leaning against the water fountain. “I should sleep with Finn. In fact…I should _marry_ Finn. Because I love him, no matter _what_ his body looks like, and I want to keep loving him for the rest of—“

She’s still going, but Santana can’t hear the words anymore. All that’s left is the roar of blood between her ears, and the clench of Brittany’s fingers around her arm, tugging her away before irreparable damage can be done.

“She’s insane,” she hears herself babble when they’ve made it a safe distance away. “She’s out of her fucking dollhouse-sized mind.”

“Do you think they’ll ask us to babysit when they bring the first baby beluga home?” Brittany asks conversationally, her arm wrapped once more around Santana’s middle. It’s all she can do not to slam her own face in a locker door.

***

It’s pretty safe to say, after four years of this shit, that Santana _should_ hate Rachel Berry. No one, after all, is as _stupid_ as Rachel—who keeps going back to Hudson time and time again, who is actually making good on that idiotic notion of _marrying_ the monstrous moron. No one is as _crazy_ as Rachel—not even Quinn, who has done so many idiotic things in the last year, it’s a fucking wonder she hasn’t decorated her very own jail cell yet. Rachel Berry is absurd on a level Santana can’t even begin to imagine, and after it all, she should loathe her with every fiber of her being.

“You like Rachel,” Brittany observes, stretched out half-naked on Santana’s bed with one iPod headphone in. Half-hazy from recent orgasms and a dish of strawberry ice cream, Santana lifts her head and scowls.

“Take that back.”

“You do-oo,” Brittany sing-songs. “You think she’s neat.”

“I think she’s a fucking train wreck married to a car wreck having sex with an airplane explosion,” Santana grumbles, tucking her head back into Brittany’s lap. “The girl is easily the _stupidest_ sad-sack I have ever had the misfortune of dealing with.”

“Totally,” Brittany agrees without missing a beat. “But you care what happens to her.”

“Do not.” Facedown on Brittany’s thigh, fingertips tracing semi-circles into the front of her underwear, Santana thinks this is the very last thing she wants to be talking about right now.

“Do too. You worry. Just a little. Admit it.”

“Worry that she’s gonna drag a bazooka into the building on graduation day, maybe.”

Brittany catches a gentle handful of her hair, easing her around to meet insightful blue eyes. “You’re gonna miss her when she’s gone, you know.”

“Miss _what_?” Santana demands. “She’s gross, and ridiculous, and she never listens to a fucking _word_ I’ve said. _And_ , remember that time she told me I’d only ever find work on a pole?”

“She’s an idiot,” Brittany says simply. “But she cares about your opinion. And you care about her making bad decisions. And that kind of makes you friends.”

“That’s disgusting,” Santana grumbles, rolling back down and fastening her mouth around Brittany’s hipbone. Her girlfriend inhales sharply, laughing as she tugs gently on Santana’s hair again.

“Santana Lopez, friends with Rachel Berry. Whoever would have guessed it?”

It’s gross, and unpleasant, and makes her skin crawl along her arms in the worst nails-on-a-thousand-chalkboards way possible, but Santana—coiled against Brittany’s lap, burning kisses into polished, perfect skin—has to admit her girl might have something of a point. Not the _friends_ part, exactly, because the day she calls Rachel Berry her friend is not a day she wants to face down—but something about the caring part kind of rings true. Much truer than she ever would have preferred, standing on that football field, glaring at shock-green running shorts and bright pink sneakers.

Rachel Berry is a complete fucking idiot, and Santana has no desire whatsoever to wrap her head around that mountain of miniaturized crazy. Not _ever_.

But she can’t deny that stupid, niggling little fact:

Rachel Berry, for all her idiocy, her aggravation, her stupid face, is really fucking hideously compelling.

Absolutely disgusting.  



End file.
